Me, a Tulpa
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Sam finds out one of Dean's secrets.


_Happy Thanksgiving (and my birthday!). - KHK_

 **Me, a Tulpa**  
 **K Hanna Korossy**

Dean had tried _everything._

Holed up in Lisa's spare room, he'd followed up every lead, from a hoodoo practitioner in Louisiana, to a Tibetan monk, to a Kikuyu high priest. He'd prayed until he was hoarse. He'd performed Hail Mary rites, visited the local crossroads more than once, and petitioned Cas, Crowley, even Death himself—itself? He took day trips to various libraries and searched out obscure volumes Bobby had forgotten he even had.

And in between, he got drunk and stared at the empty Impala and the horsemen's rings and sometimes cried, picturing Sam in the darkest corner of Hell, at the eternal mercy of two furious, powerful beings.

But none of the possibilities panned out. A few might have saved him from his deal a few years back, but springing open a cage designed to hold the Prince of Hell? And letting a human escape, intact, without releasing Lucifer? No book, no being had the answer to that one.

The trips got fewer, then petered out completely. After scaring Ben in one of his alcoholic fugues, Dean cut the drinking down to the bare minimum he needed to get through the day. Occasional visits to Lisa's bedroom at night became a permanent arrangement. And the Impala eventually moved to the garage and he got a truck, and a job.

Life seemed to go on.

Ben liked to hear stories about the hunt, though, and Dean obliged sometimes. The less frightening ones, the ones he could smile about, even through tears. The ridiculous squonk. Sam and the jackalope. The slow-dancing "alien."

It was in the middle of telling Ben about the Ghostfacers that Dean had the idea, the only new one he'd had in months.

He finished the story distractedly, then retreated to the study.

He had some writing to do.

00000

Dean flopped down in the pub seat and announced, "I struck out."

"With the witness, or the waitress?" Sam asked distractedly, eyes glued to his laptop.

"The witness, smartass. You order yet?"

"No—Dean?"

"Yeah?" His brother was the preoccupied one now, perusing the menu. "Hey, coconut shrimp!"

"Did you ever write fanfiction?"

Dean, who'd just taken a gulp of Sam's coffee, sprayed it impressively far across the table.

Sam yanked his laptop away, grabbing at napkins to wipe the back even as he glared. "Dude!"

"What? You can't just—No, I don't write fanfiction! I mean, yeah, okay, I wrote a couple of comments about Dr. Sexy back in—"

"That's not what I mean." Sam pulled his coffee safely out of his brother's reach, then turned the laptop to face him. "I'm talking about a story by _Impala67_. Carver Edlund fanfiction."

Interestingly, Dean barely glanced at the screen. "No," he said flatly, and turned the laptop back around to Sam.

"Really?" Sam pushed on. "Because it uses our last names, which Chuck never published. And it has me taking Lucifer with me into the Cage after I almost kill you, after sunlight reflecting off the Impala breaks through Lucifer's control." The story had, in fact, details Sam himself either hadn't known or didn't remember, details only one other person would have been present for. And an anguish Sam doubted even the most talented writer would be able to conceive.

Dean was staring at the menu, but Sam doubted he was seeing it.

"You want to hear how the story ends?" Sam asked, more muted now.

A beat. "No," Dean said hollowly. "I know what happens."

What happened was simple. The Dean in the story came up with a simple rite that freed his brother. And Sam returned whole and healthy and not remembering a single moment in the cage, ready and willing to return to the hunt with his brother. It was a far cry from what had really happened: Sam's soulless return, their strained reunion months later, and Dean's recent retrieval of Sam's soul with Death's help. It read, in fact, like some serious wishful thinking. If Dean were inclined to write wishful fiction, which he wasn't, and then post it online for all to see, which he absolutely, over-his-dead-body definitely wasn't.

Sam waited, silent.

"You're not gonna let this go, are you?" Dean took a breath, gave him a sideways glance, which usually meant a confession he couldn't quite look Sam in the eye with. "I tried everything. I mean, seriously, Sam, _everything._ Nothing was working."

"I know," he said gently. And he did. He'd never had even a moment of doubt that Dean would've done everything possible to get Sam out.

"Then I had this idea." Dean looked at him. "Remember the haunted house in Richardson? Old Man Mordecai?"

It took only a moment of thought. "The tulpa?" Sam asked, eyebrows rising. Was Dean saying…?

"One symbol and a whole lotta belief, and it became real. It made a real ghost." Dean was still watching him.

He didn't want to spell it out, Sam realized. So he took the leap. "So…the symbol. It was on the story?"

Dean nodded. "When I first put it up." His gaze slid down again, to the salt shaker he was idly rocking between his hands. "I figured, where m'I gonna get more eyes and more belief than a fan site that already knows about us and pretends we're real?"

"What happened?" Sam asked, genuinely curious.

A new voice cut in. "What can I get you two handsome boys to eat?" The middle-aged waitress smiled down at them, order pad ready.

"Not now," Sam and Dean barked in unison, and Sam barely registered her huff with a wince as she turned away. Might not want to eat here now after that, or risk getting their order messed with.

Dean shook his head, mouth quirking. "You showed up at Lisa's."

Sam's mind screeched to a halt.

"'Course, it wasn't _you-_ you. I guess even belief only gets you so far. I mean, the guy looked like you and sounded like you and was real enough, but…"

But, Sam thought of the shapeshifter-Dean and possessed-Dean and Dean Smith. "It wasn't me."

Dean snorted softly. "I didn't think it could get any worse, you know? But it was. I erased the symbol the same day."

"Did the tulpa disappear?" He probably shouldn't be making Dean dwell on this, but Sam couldn't help wonder.

"Gone when I woke up. Tried to stay up with it, but…" Dean shrugged.

Sam could just imagine him hungrily watching the facsimile, trying even against his own will to hold on to that one shred of his lost brother. And he got it. Hey, if he'd have thought of tulpas, he might've tried it himself when Dean was in Hell.

Dean gave an embarrassed shrug. "Forget it, okay, it was stupid."

"It was desperate," Sam corrected quietly, then took pity on his brother as Dean flushed. "But you left the story up." He smiled this time.

Dean's color deepened, but this was far safer territory. "I didn't think about it, okay?"

"You pulled the symbol—you could've pulled the story even easier."

"Dude—"

"Did you see the reviews? I think you made a lot of fangirls cry."

Dean glared at him. "How'd _you_ come across it, anyway?"

"First vic was a fan writer. Kinda ironic, huh? Her," Sam consulted his notes, taken just for this purpose, "'moss-green-eyed Dean' looking into her death?"

Dean made an inarticulate sound and grabbed for the laptop.

Sam swung it away in time. "Seriously, man, your story's written pretty well. You should do more."

Dean growled, rose, and stomped out, barely dodging the returning waitress.

Sam grinned and left her a generous tip. And saved the story just in case it disappeared anytime soon.

The fangirls weren't the only ones it had choked up.

 **The End**


End file.
